


atmospheric blues in the key of gravity

by theacademyisnt



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: (the disorders are not the focus of the fic), Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Avoidant Personality Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, M/M, Slow Burn, histrionic personality disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-24
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-01 20:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8637355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theacademyisnt/pseuds/theacademyisnt
Summary: Ryan Ross is new to Wilmette, Illinois, the small town just minutes from the Windy City, but he's already sort of picked up on how things work there: Pete owns the record store, Brendon owns the flower shop, Gabe is a barista at the coffeehouse and William usually hangs out at the bookstore where he works. He's learned most of this from his best friend, Spencer Smith.Ryan gets fired from his job at the bookstore for coming in late, and Brendon employs him. Brendon wants Ryan to like him three bouquets and a rose more than Ryan doesn't.





	1. stratus

**Author's Note:**

> haha hey nerds it is i, a complete loser, back at it again with a crappy bandom fanfiction!!!! thanks for reading ;)))

“Ryan, this is your third time being late this month.”

“I can explain—”

“Let me finish, Ryan. Ryan, you know that usually, I would be lenient here, but when the three times you’ve been late are each by almost an hour? Nothing can excuse that. I don’t think I can give you another chance. I’m gonna have to let you go.”

“Sir, I really need this job—”

“I’m aware that you’re a bit down on your luck right now, Ryan, but I just can’t keep someone employed who I don’t trust to get here on time. You’re a smart kid, I’m sure you’ll find somewhere else that’ll take you.”

“…Okay. I’ll just— I’ll just get going now.”

“Alright. Take care and stay safe, Ryan.”

* * *

 

“Hey, Brendon!”

Brendon beamed as Jon’s familiar mop of dark hair and flip-flops (which were obscenely inappropriate, given the Illinois weather; it was always cold, no matter what time of the year it was) came into view. “Hi, Jon,” he greeted, slinging the canvas bag full of seeds he’d purchased the previous day over his shoulder to allow Jon to fall in beside him. Seeing Jon everyday on his way to the shop was always the highlight of his morning.

“What have you got there?” Jon asked with a grin, nodding to Brendon’s bag.

“Geraniums, yarrow, gayfeathers, peonies, morning glories…” he listed, trailing off. “Summer flowers, just for my personal garden, y’know.”

“Anything in there that you think Spencer would like?” At this, Brendon rolled his eyes and scoffed, but all in good humor; Jon asked a similar question every morning. Jon’s attraction to the bearded guy (whose name he’d only just learned) that came into the record store every morning wearing sweats and a hoodie had become somewhat of a joke between the two of them.

“Don’t you think he’s more of a winter person?”

Jon smiled at the ground and shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “I guess everyone who lives within a hundred mile radius of Chicago turns into one, eventually.”

“And anyways, don’t you think you should get him a record or a CD instead?” Brendon suggested as the two drew nearer to his shop. “He spends so much time in the record store and he never buys anything. Maybe that’s because he can’t afford it?”

“I think you’re right, but flowers are cheaper and more romantic, anyways.” When the two of them reached the door, Jon pat Brendon on the shoulder and said, “Alright, I’m gonna go head out. Have a good day.”

“You too, Jon.”

* * *

 

“Sorry, man, we’re not hiring right now. I’d love to have you, but I just can’t afford it.”

“Oh, okay.”

“But you know what, the guy next door might take you, I think. I heard about him firing one of his employees yesterday after a kind of nasty argument about how he never showed up or took too many smoke breaks or something like that, I don’t know. I only get as involved in gossip as I need to to know what’s going on.”

“Wait, really? You’re the best, man! Thank you _so_ so much.”

“Not a problem, dude. Always glad to help.”

* * *

 

Brendon looked up from his camelias when he heard the bells attached to the front door chime to see Pete Wentz, the short, tattooed owner of Decaydance Records nextdoor and someone he’d never seen before trailing behind him. He left the flowers and hurried over to the two of them, still wearing his gardener’s gloves when he shook Pete’s hand. “Hey, Pete, what’s goin’ on?” He glanced briefly at the kid standing at Pete’s side, alarmed that he didn’t recognize him; it was such a small town and Brendon was so social that the notion was practically unheard of.

“Were you still needing someone to replace Brent?” Pete asked.

Brendon could feel himself grimace. “Don’t even say his name.” Brent had been a soul-sucking liability to the atmosphere of Brendon’s shop and his mental health that he’d rather forget about than dwell on. After Brendon fired him, Brent skipped town, and probably for the best. “But yeah, I do. I’m guessing that’s why, um…” Brendon gestured vaguely in the new guy’s direction, hoping he would introduce himself.

“Ryan Ross,” he said simply, face perfectly and completely impassive; Brendon couldn’t read him at all, and it bothered him.

“Right, that’s why Ryan’s here,” Brendon finished, and he held his hand out for Ryan to shake. “Nice to meet you, I’m Brendon.” He felt his skin prickle with discomfort and hyperawareness of his surroundings when Ryan did nothing but stare at it and offer a curt nod.

“He’s a good kid, I think,” Pete assured him with a lopsided grin. “He’s new to town, and he worked at the bookstore until this morning. They only fired him because he came into work late one too many times, which I don’t think is too severe compared to what I’ve heard about you-know-who.”

“Yeah, anyone’s better than him,” Brendon joked. The situation made more sense, now; Brendon didn’t know Ryan because he was new, not to mention the fact that Ryan didn’t see too inclined to any form of social interaction. “You’re hired, Ryan. Pay’s $9.00 an hour; not too much better than minimum wage, but it’s something. Brent worked the morning shift, so you can take that over, Vicky usually comes in during the morning, too. You know how to work a register?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ryan responded after a lapse in comprehension which was most likely due to Brendon’s rapid fire explanation. “That’s what I did at the bookstore.”

“Great. Shift starts at 8:30 and ends at 12:00, and you have Sunday off. The dress code’s casual; what you have on now is perfect.” He paused to nod in Pete’s direction. “Good to see you again, Pete. Have a good rest of your day.”

“Anytime, Brendon. Hopefully things work out a little better with Ryan than they did with Brent.” And then Pete was gone, waving as he left the shop.

“Let me get you a nametag,” Brendon decided immediately after Pete had vanished from his line of sight, hurriedly rushing behind the counter and emerging with a plastic tag shaped and decorated to look like a sunflower, a blank sticker, and a sharpie. He neatly printed Ryan’s name on the sticker, then peeled it off and stuck it on the tag as close to what he deemed to be its center as possible. “Here,” he said with as friendly a smile as he could muster and moved to pin the tag onto the pocket of Ryan’s shirt.

Ryan flinched, and Brendon stopped. “No, I can do it myself,” Ryan objected, taking the tag from Brendon and pinning it on himself.

 _What did I do wrong?_ Brendon thought absentmindedly, slightly horrified at the idea that he hadn’t even known Ryan for a full five minutes and he’d already succeeded in making him uncomfortable. “Um, you can just… You can just wait behind the counter,” he suggested, desperate to remove himself from the situation. “I open the place early, so we usually don’t get customers until Vicky shows up. It’s kinda slow, but we have a lot of regulars, so.” Ryan didn’t say anything in response, just stared at him, so Brendon said, “Okay, I’m gonna go head out back again. Flowers to grow… um, yeah. If you need help with anything, just ask me or ask Vicky when she gets here.”

He rushed back to his garden, throwing glances over his shoulder as he resumed tending to his camelias to make sure that Ryan wasn’t watching him. Once he was certain that the back of Ryan’s head was facing him from where he was standing behind the counter, Brendon let out a sigh of relief and crossed his legs, vacantly stroking the petals of one of his daisies. He hadn’t known Ryan for long, but something about him was off, made him feel strange; it was like their interactions (so far; after all, Brendon had just met Ryan a few moments ago) had formed a dissonance instead of a harmony, but only by a half step, so it was just noticeable enough to tell something wasn’t quite right but not prominent enough to pinpoint what. The idea of Ryan scared him because he didn’t know anything about him, though he’d obviously been in town long enough to get and keep a job at the bookstore; Ryan was a mystery, uncharted territory, and Brendon didn’t want Ryan to hate him.

There was something about Ryan’s shaggy brown hair that was long enough for him to need a haircut but short enough to the point where it seemingly exposed too much of his face, shoulders that were too stiff to assume that he wasn’t pinching them back consciously, and perpetually nondescript expression that did nothing to give Brendon any clues as to what he was thinking or feeling that intrigued him but also somehow managed to scream “unapproachable.”

So Brendon knew why he thought it was a good idea to leave his flowers to go talk to Ryan, but he also didn’t, because he was curious but theoretically, Ryan’s standoffishness should’ve outweighed his curiosity.

“So what brings you to town?” Brendon asked as soon as he approached Ryan, and Ryan jumped, whipping around to face him with an expression of discontent that overwhelmed Brendon with feelings self-consciousness upon seeing it. “Like, you know… why here?” He forced the words out even though they were about to die on his tongue, determined to carry out a complete conversation with Ryan.

Ryan drew his eyebrows together, and Brendon noticed that his posture stiffened. His eyes scanned Brendon up and down, too unassuming to be critical but too aggressive to be anything but negatively scrutinizing. Finally, he answered, “It’s close to the city,” and looked away, busying himself with opening and closing the register.

“Uh, there’s no other reason?” Brendon pressed.

“Don’t really know,” Ryan replied, and Brendon wasn’t sure if the way he hunched in on himself in reaction to his voice was indicative of annoyance. “My best friend lives here, I guess.”

Brendon was about to ask, “Who’s your best friend?” when Vicky walked inside and hurried to clock in.

“Hey, Brendon,” she greeted. Vicky was a senior at the local college and hung out with Gabe, a barista at the coffeehouse nextdoor; she’d been working at Brendon’s flower shop since she finished her GE.

“Hey, Vicky.” When Ryan looked up, Brendon gestured in Vicky’s direction. “That’s Vicky. Vicky, this is Ryan. He’s new.”

“Nice to meet you, Ryan,” she said. “Our new shipments don’t come in until next week, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You won’t have to help me with inventory until then.”

“Sweet.”

“Well, I think I’m gonna go back, for now,” Brendon told them, disappointed that he hadn’t been able to talk to Ryan as much as he would’ve liked to. “Ryan, if you need any help, you can ask Vicky, and if she doesn’t know the answer (which I doubt, since she’s been here for two years), you can ask me.” The smile he offered Ryan wasn’t returned.

Brendon spent the rest of Ryan’s shift hiding in his garden and staring and occasionally coming out to see how things were doing. A few of the shop’s regulars, like Ms. Atkinson and Ms. Crawford came in, and Brendon talked with them for a while; he didn’t try to make conversation with Ryan again until it was time for him and Vicky to clock out.

“Hey, Ryan!” he called as Ryan was about to walk out the door. When Ryan looked back at him, Brendon ran over to him and said, “During lunch, I lock up until 2:00. Would you wanna come to the coffeehouse with me to get lunch? And, y’know, maybe I could show you around and introduce you to everyone.”

“Uh, no thanks,” Ryan responded a little too quickly. “I’ll just find somewhere to eat around town. It’ll help me get used to things.”

“Right,” Brendon agreed reluctantly. Ryan was out the door before Brendon could say, “See you tomorrow, Ryan!”

“Huh. Tough luck,” Vicky commented.

“He doesn’t like me, Vicky,” Brendon lamented, pouting out his bottom lip. “He _hates_ me, Vicky.” He was obviously joking with his theatricalism regarding the complaint, but his vulnerable tone of voice gave away the truth behind it.

“Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Vicky sighed, patting his shoulder as he threw himself on her in an overly emotional embrace. “I’m sure he’ll warm up to you _eventually_. Most people end up getting used to you. And anyways, he’s probably just nervous, or something. It’s his first day on the job.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right,” Brendon said, more as an assurance to himself than as an agreement with her. “Coffeehouse?”

“As always.”

* * *

 

“Spence, this is the worst ramen I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“You know, you’re really bitchy for someone who can barely scrape up enough money to have three meals a day.”

“You and I being dirt poor doesn’t change the fact that this ramen is sub-par.”

“Right, sub-par. Anyways, you told me you got a new job?”

“Yeah.”

“Not too thrilled about that, either?”

“Okay, listen, I wanted a job at the record store, but then the owner told me that they weren’t hiring, so he referred me to the guy nextdoor, which was much appreciated, but A. the guy owns a flower shop, and everything I touch dies so I’m scared to even breathe in that place, and B. he’s really loud and obnoxious and overly friendly and you know how I feel about people like that; they just rub me the wrong way. But I’m not gonna complain about that anymore, because at least I have a job and I’m not gonna starve to death. I’m not ungrateful.”

“You’re lucky he’s even making an attempt to be friendly. You’re very unlikable.”

“Shut up, Spencer.”

* * *

 

On Mondays at the end of the day, Brendon usually came to the coffeehouse with Jon, William, Pete, and Patrick, because it was Poetry Night; Pete always read some of his poetry, while the others ordered coffee and watched.

“Did you want me to order?” William asked with a grin, looking down at the others. William Beckett was skinny and too tall for his own good, with longish brown hair and, as Gabe described it, “a butt that wouldn’t quit;” William, Patrick, and Pete had known each other since college, while Brendon and Jon first met them after the two of them moved to town.

“Gabe’s working right now, isn’t he?” Brendon asked.

“Yeah.”

A collective groan rose up from the rest of them. William and Gabe had this weird “flirtationship,” and no one knew if they were boyfriends or not because neither of them had made it official. What everyone did know was that William always took too long to order his coffee when Gabe was working because he was often too busy flirting. Most of the coffeehouse regulars had taken a strong disliking towards him for this reason.

“You know what, go ahead,” Patrick sighed. “Pete’s screaming will probably be enough to keep all of us up without coffee.”

“I’ll get it eventually,” William told them. “Your usual orders?”

There was a chorus of agreement amongst the four of them as they entered the coffeehouse, filtering over to their usual table. William left to go take their orders while the rest of them took a seat.

Pete nudged Patrick with his elbow. “Did you have a good day?”

“Uh, yeah,” Patrick answered, pushing up his glasses and smoothing down his skirt. No one was certain when Patrick Stump had traded in his hoodies and trucker hats for T-shirts reading, “Fuck The Cis-tem” and pleated skirts, but no one who had qualms about it questioned it, because Pete Wentz was 5 feet and 6 inches of pure unbridled rage that wasn’t afraid to beat anyone to a bloody pulp in any fast food parking lot at any time of day (or night). “Did you write anything new? Anything other than what you showed me, I mean.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, I can’t wait to hear it,” Patrick told him with a smile.

William came back sooner than expected with their orders. As he handed each of them their designated coffee cup, Jon asked, “Why are you back so soon?”

“Well, it turns out the customers were complaining about me taking too long to order, so instead of having Gabe take my order, they sent out someone else,” William explained, “just for me. I feel special.” William’s expression dictated that he did not feel special at all. “Oh, well. There’s always his place.”

“Groooooooss,” Brendon complained, wrinkling his nose to feign disgust.

The five of them were casually conversing and sipping their drinks while waiting for poetry night when Jon pinched him. “Brendon, look,” he whispered with a degree of urgency that startled Brendon. “Spencer’s here.”

Brendon looked up to see that there was, indeed, a bearded man in sweats standing by the door, and while he was excited that Jon was going to have a chance to talk to the Guy of His Dreams (or whatever), he was more intrigued by the fact that none other than Ryan Ross, dressed in corduroys, a hoodie, and a scarf, was standing at his side. Upon seeing Ryan, an out-of-place, sinking feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

“The guy standing with him is my new employee,” Brendon whispered back. “Call them over, Jon.”

Jon frowned, squirming in his seat. “Wait, why me?”

“Because he doesn’t like me, okay? I don’t wanna scare him off,” Brendon explained.

Jon rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I’ll go,” he grumbled; though he was pretending to be annoyed with Brendon, it was easy to see in his fidgeting hands and careful steps that in actuality, he was nervous.

Brendon kept himself occupied with his coffee until he heard Jon return with Ryan and Spencer. He looked up and immediately made eye contact with Ryan (which only served to unsettle him further, as it was unwavering) and waved to the two of them. “Hey, guys.” He turned to the four sitting at the table and continued, “Guys, the guy in the scarf is my new employee, Ryan, and the guy with the lumberjack beard is his friend, Spencer. Spencer, Ryan, this is William, Jon, Patrick, and Pete.” He gestured to each of them, respectively.

“Hey,” Spencer said, falling in next to Patrick. There wasn’t any more room next to him, so Ryan settled for sitting next to Jon.

“You guys here for Poetry Night?” Pete asked.

Spencer nodded. “Yeah, Ryan wanted to go. He forced me to read something I wrote because he’s too shy to read anything of his own even though he was literally a creative writing major and could easily blow me out of the water in the poetry department.”

Everyone laughed at this except Ryan, whose ears turned red. “I don’t like talking in front of people,” was all he said to defend himself.

 _He’s really quiet,_ Brendon surmised. _Maybe he doesn’t like me because I keep trying to get him to talk to me?_ He completely disregarded Vicky’s suggestion from earlier that Ryan was just nervous around him because he was his new employer and just started to assume that Ryan didn’t like him.

Poetry Night began soon after Spencer and Ryan sat down with them, but Brendon’s thoughts were far too occupied with possible reasons why Ryan didn’t like him to pay attention. He recalled Spencer’s poem beginning with the line “I won’t cut my beard and I won’t change my hair” or something similar and Pete’s including a phrase like “Untie the balloons from around my neck” and him screaming at the end of it, but that was all he could bring himself to focus on while Ryan was only two away from him.

They decided it was time to go home at 11:30, and Brendon asked Ryan if he needed a ride or someone to walk home with him.

“No, I’ll just go with Spencer,” Ryan told him.

Brendon was left to stare at the two of them as they walked across the street, engaging in conversation about which Brendon was too far away to discern.

“Jon?”

“Huh?”

“Why doesn’t Ryan Ross like me?”

“Don’t know. He didn’t seem like he didn’t.”

Brendon shook his head. “I’ll think about it later.”

He did think about it later, before he went to bed; but before that, he thought about it on the way back to his apartment in Jon’s car. “Jon, I really want to be his friend,” he told him from where he was sitting shotgun.

“Yeah?”

  
“What kind of flowers do you think he likes?”


	2. blue boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your heartless songs won't stick.

The next day, Brendon’s goal was to take Ryan out to the coffeehouse to have lunch with him (without having to really convince him) so that he could be certain that Ryan didn’t hate him.

“Hey, Ryan,” he began when Ryan and Vicky were nearing the end of their shift, “how’s it going?” It was just a simple, vague question to get a tentative conversation started.

“Standard,” Ryan replied, and Brendon figured that at least Ryan was talking to him.

“Do you like it here so far?” Brendon ventured with a cautious smile.

Ryan nodded. “Yeah.”

“You like it better than wherever you came from?”

“Yeah.” Again, Ryan offered no expression that might’ve remotely given Brendon any clue as to his disposition.

“So, um, Ryan, I was thinking again that maybe after I close up, you and I can go to the coffeehouse with Vicky?” Brendon asked. He thought in the back of his mind that maybe he should’ve given Ryan more of a lead-in, but the fact that he was practically buzzing in his skin with anticipation prevented him from being able to wait any longer.

“No, I’ll just go eat lunch with Spencer,” Ryan said, and Brendon tried not to let himself get discouraged at the bluntness of Ryan’s rejection.

When Ryan left, Vicky gave him a sympathetic look. “Keep trying. He’ll say yes eventually.”

* * *

 

“He keeps asking me to go to lunch with him, Spence.”

“Have you maybe considered that you might end up liking him if you spent time with him outside of a professional setting?”

“I wouldn’t call working at a flower shop professional, per se.”

“That’s because he’s the professional, not you.”

“Well, anyways, the thought of going out to eat with him makes me uncomfortable.”

“Why, because you don’t know him?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Ryan, have you maybe considered that he’s _trying to get to know you_?”

“I don’t like him enough to let him, though.”

“Ryan. No, Ryan, look at me.”

“I am—”

“Ryan, I’m your only friend here.”

  
“Not true! You make me sound like I’m an antisocial loser who just stays in his apartment all day reading instead of talking to people.”

“Okay, first of all, it’s not your apartment, it’s Alex’s; second of all, your words, not mine; third of all, if I’m wrong and you’ve got more friends than just me, name five. And Alex doesn’t count.”

“That’s easy. Uh, Vicky, Jon, William, Pete, and Patrick.”

“Have you seen any of them outside of the coffeehouse or the flower shop?”

“William used to talk to me when I worked at the bookstore—”

“Can you tell me any of their last names?”

“No, but—”

“Or their favorite colors?”

“Spencer, you’re not letting me—”

“Do you know what kind of music they like? What their favorite songs are? How they think? How they act? How they talk? Where they went to college? What they want to do for a living? What they already do for a living? Their hopes, dreams, aspirations?”

“Spencer, I don’t understand why that matters—”

“That’s what I thought.”

“I don’t understand why I need to know all those things about them when I already know them about you, and I don’t understand why you want me to be friends with them when I’m already friends with you.”

“ _Best_ friends, Ryan. We’re best friends, and at this point, I don’t think anything’s gonna change that. But you have to realize that you’re getting to a point in your life where it’s time to start thinking about whether or not you want to make an effort to find happiness. It’s not just gonna come to you, Ryan. You can’t just wait for it. If you try that, you’re gonna end up still living in Alex’s shitty apartment at the age of 35, living off of welfare, unemployed, single, and still reading the same goddamn books because you never bothered to go outside to go check the new releases. You’ll have grown content with mediocrity, and that’s not the Ryan I know. The Ryan I know has an incredible way with words that he could do amazing things with if he just let people see it, and the Ryan I know knows people, how to get inside their skin and what makes them tick. The Ryan I know is terrified of doing wrong, so he always tries to do the right thing. The Ryan I know would do anything for me, and I would do anything for him. So please, Ryan, for me, try and make friends. I don’t want you to be lonely your whole life, and this is a nice town. I love you, Ryan, and I care about you.”

“Spence…”

“Ryan?”

“Okay, I will, but only because you told me to. Love you too, Spence.”

* * *

 

After spending a lifetime thinking about what he was going to say to him before he went to sleep and then spending a lifetime dreaming about it, Brendon approached Ryan next Monday at work after he deemed he’d spent enough time fantasizing. In the interim, Ryan was still the same, speaking only to exchange dry pleasantries with him and Vicky.

“I’m gonna talk to him today, Jon,” Brendon told him as the two of them walked to his shop. “I’m gonna get him to like me.”

“Maybe you just need to give him his space?” Jon suggested. “He’s pretty quiet. You’ll scare him away if you keep accosting him like you’re probably thinking about doing.”

“I haven’t been _accosting_ him,” Brendon retorted, “and that’s not what I’m trying to do. I just want to be friends with him, and I keep getting this vibe from him that he just doesn’t like me. I can’t figure out what he’s thinking, ever. I just— I guess it just bothers me, and I don’t really have a good reason why.”

Jon scrunched up his face like he was thinking, then said, “If he doesn’t like talking to you, then show him you want to be his friend in other ways. Give him more silent attention. Help him with things he looks like he needs help with. Maybe exploit the fact that you have an entire garden behind your shop and give him flowers. Make conversation with him by finding things he likes and talking about them instead of just taking a shot in the dark.” Jon finished with an easy smile that Brendon returned.

“Wow, that’s actually really good advice,” Brendon realized out loud and speculated that maybe the fact that Jon knew more about Ryan (or just people in general) than he did wasn’t a bad thing. “Thanks, Jon,” he said as the two reached the shop. He noticed, with slight surprise, that Ryan was already waiting for him.

“Anytime. Have a good day.”

“You too,” Brendon called, and Jon waved goodbye.

As soon as Brendon opened up shop and Ryan clocked in, settling behind the register, he apparently forgot all the advice Jon had given him not five minutes ago.

“So, Ryan,” he said, coming up behind him and placing a hand on his shoulder; before he could continue, though, Ryan made a noise that was somewhere in between a screech and a sharp inhalation and smacked his hand away. He made a note to himself that he needed to work on his approach.

“What?” Ryan asked with his eyebrows pinched and his shoulders raised; he was practically radiating disgruntlement that made Brendon’s skin prickle in response to its blatancy.

“Relax, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Brendon wanted to say, but he figured that Ryan wouldn’t appreciate that because it kind of sounded like Brendon was trying to get an aggressive dog to let him pet it, so instead, he just asked, “What’s your favorite flower?”

To which, of course, Ryan did not give a straight answer; he just shrugged, continuing to mindlessly play with the cash register. In that moment, Brendon became fascinated with Ryan’s hands before he realized that he was the only one that was going to make any effort to keep the conversation going.

“You don’t know?” Brendon asked. “Well, I like amaryllis. Or amaryllis-es, whatever the plural form is. Oh, and birds of paradise, and Queen Anne’s lace. Amaryllis—that sounds better, so, um— Amaryllis are my favorite, though. But I like Queen Anne’s lace because you can stick it in your boots or hair or jean pockets and it makes you look like an angel, or maybe a woodland pixie, y’know? I bet if you put some in Spencer’s beard, it would look really cool. He would look like… um…” He trailed off as he realized that Ryan was staring at him. There was something about his eyes that made him feel like Ryan was judging him every time he looked at him, or like those eyes could see through him completely. It made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin.

“You talk in run-on sentences,” Ryan commented, pulling a book out from the backpack he’d brought today that Brendon couldn’t identify before he flipped it open.

Brendon felt like something inside of him was about to break—not out of frustration, but out of desperation—but he refused to let it. Ryan was unsociable, but that had never stopped him from trying to make friends with someone before. “I’m, uh—” He ran over the words he wanted to say three times in his head before he said them to make sure that they formed a coherent thought. “I’m sorry if I t-talk too much,” he said, voice still breaking despite the care with which he spoke the words.

Ryan sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Just don’t expect me to give you back the same.”

He’d been hoping that Ryan would feel bad for what he said, apologize for being so standoffish over the past week and finally make the same attempt to converse with him that Brendon had; unfortunately, this wasn’t the case.

“Ryan, do you not like me?” Brendon couldn’t help himself from blurting.

Ryan just shrugged again, and Brendon gave up, retreating to the back.

Miraculously, a full three hours later he remembered Jon’s advice which he’d praised so vehemently before he’d opened the shop. Running through his garden with unforeseen urgency, he thought about which flowers Ryan might like the best. Ryan didn’t know anything about flowers—at least, Brendon didn’t think he did—so he decided to pick them of his own volition.

Hydrangeas? Ryan seemed like a hydrangea person, Brendon decided, so he gathered some from the back. Geraniums? Yes, but what kind of geraniums? Dovefoot or mourning widow? Brendon opted for both, and added them to his “pile” of sorts. Ryan probably liked forget-me-nots, so Brendon collected some of those, too. He ran back into the store to fetch a white ribbon and used it to carefully tie the flowers together once he returned to the back.

He took a moment to catch his breath and take a look at the bouquet he’d created. It was made from flowers whose petals were cool-toned, most of which were blue; blue flowers for a blue boy, then? It seemed fitting. He silently commended himself for arranging it.

Brendon didn’t ask Ryan to come with him to lunch at the end of his shift, this time. “Um, hey, Ryan,” he said to him, walking alongside him as he made his way to the door. “This is— This is for you.” As he spoke, Ryan’s comment about him always talking in run-on sentences lingered in the back of his mind. “I feel bad for bothering you this morning. I made you this to make it up to you.” He held out the bouquet expectantly, waiting for Ryan to take it or do something or say something that would diffuse his anxiety.

When Ryan finally took it and examined it, his face formed an expression of raised eyebrows, a slightly parted mouth, wide eyes, and red cheeks that was completely foreign to Brendon; it was as if the stars in the sky had shifted their positions relative to Earth to draw a completely new constellation. “Um— I— Um— T-thanks.” The fact that Ryan had seemingly completely lost his composure frightened Brendon, because he’d never seen it happen before, much less as a result of his actions.

“Does this one have your favorite flower in it?” Brendon asked.

“No,” Ryan said with some degree of uncertainty, shaking his head.

“Then I’ll keep making them for you until I figure out your favorite flower.” Brendon offered him a smile, and he swore that he could see the beginnings of one form at the corners of Ryan’s mouth.

“Uh, you— You don’t have to do that for me—”

“No, I don’t have to, but I want to,” Brendon cut him off as they walked to the door together.

“You’re not gonna ask me if I want to come with you to the coffeehouse?” Ryan asked as he was about to leave, clutching Brendon’s flowers so securely with a hand so shaky one could’ve guessed that his life depended on it.

Brendon shook his head. “No. I thought I would give you some space.”

This time, after Ryan left, Vicky winked at him and gave him a thumbs up.

* * *

 

“This ramen is shit.”

“Our finances are shit.”

“Point taken.”

“And anyways, you should be with Brendon at the coffeehouse right now.”

“I told you, he didn’t ask me today.”

“That’s suspicious.”

“He hasn’t asked me since last Tuesday and I’ve told you every day since then that he hasn’t.”

“You came in with a bouquet of flowers today.”

“Yeah, I— He gave them to me, yeah.”

“Why did he give them to you? What happened?”

“God, slow your roll, Spence. I wouldn’t talk to him when he asked me what my favorite flower was and he felt bad for bothering me, so he made me a bouquet. That’s all.”

“Well, I guess he’s bound to have flowers to spare, but wasting them on you doesn’t seem like the most practical use for them—”

“Spence!”

“Relax, I’m just joking. But he shouldn’t have to feel like apologizing for your antisocial and unlikable tendencies.”

“Spencer Smith, I swear—”

“Joking, joking.”

“Yeah, I know… but I still kinda agree with you.”

“Say, Ryan, why don’t you wanna be friends with him, again?”

“Don’t like him.”

“Ryan, do you want to know what I think?”

“You’re gonna tell me anyways, so—”

“He’s been giving you attention pretty much non-stop since you started working at his flower shop. You and I both know, Ryan, that that is something you thrive on. He talks too much, and you don’t talk enough. The two of you would probably be good friends if you just hung out with him once in a while. I think you do like him and want him to be your friend, but there’s something stopping you from letting it happen.”

“It’s— I’m just—”

“Afraid?”

“No.”

“Not everyone is _him_ , Ryan.”

“I thought I told you not to talk about him anymore.”

“I can’t just ignore him, Ryan, because he still affects you. The day I let go of him is the day you let go of him.”

“Can we, um—”

“Anyways, like I was saying, you need to stop assuming that everyone’s just gonna turn around and backstab you. I’ve known you since we were in kindergarten, and I’ve gone those nearly twenty years without doing anything like that to hurt you.”

“But you’re different, Spence. People like you are hard to find.”

“Ryan, the world is full of people like me. You’re just too scared to look for them.”

* * *

 

Brendon was surprised to see Ryan and Spencer at Poetry Night again and even more surprised to see them heading straight for his table. “Hey, guys,” he said; everyone else at the table offered scattered greetings when they realized the two were joining them.

“Where’s William?” Spencer asked once he and Ryan took a seat.

“He’s arguing with the manager about the fact that he can’t talk to Gabe anymore,” Patrick sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Gabe’s the dall, dark, and handsome barista that’s in love with William and William’s in love with, but neither of them will go past flirting, for some reason,” Pete explained when Spencer and Ryan looked the slightest bit confused.

“Well, people are sometimes stubborn when it comes to realizing things,” Spencer remarked, and Brendon could’ve sworn that he shot a deliberate glance in Ryan’s direction to accompany the statement.

“We give them their time, though,” Jon responded with a distant smile. “It won’t take long for them to figure things out.”

During Poetry Night, Pete read something he’d titled “Snitches and Talkers Get Stitches and Walkers” that was rather violent—“Show me a starry-eyed kid/I will break his jaw” and “Keep you locked up in the trunk of my mind/Keep talking, keep this alive,” for example—and (again) ended with him screaming at the top of his lungs; Patrick read something he’d called “Saturday,” which was obviously about Pete (given that he’d used his name multiple times throughout the poem). After, the group stayed longer than they did last time, but around midnight, Ryan excused himself to go outside. Brendon wasn’t going to meddle at first, but thirty minutes after Ryan had left the table, he was starting to get curious as to what he was doing and worried as to his wellbeing.

“I’m gonna go check on Ryan,” he announced, then stood up and walked outside.

Ryan was standing by the door, leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed over his body, and he wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a T-shirt.

“Ryan, are you cold?” Brendon asked quietly, moving to stand next to him.

“Yeah,” he answered. Their breath formed clouds of vapor as they spoke.

“Do you— Would you like my jacket?” Brendon asked, already moving to strip it off.

“No, no,” Ryan assured him. “My roommate, he’s gonna pick me up soon. I’m waiting for him out here.”

“Why aren’t you waiting for him inside?”

“I don’t— Uh— I’m too tired to talk to anyone anymore,” Ryan admitted. Ryan was shivering, and it was making his voice shake.

“You’re sure you don’t want my jacket?”

Ryan nodded.

“Ryan, it’s freezing, and you’ve been out here for half an hour. I’m giving you my jacket,” Brendon decided against Ryan’s refusal.

“No, you don’t have to,” Ryan tried to protest, but before he could finish his sentence, he was already wearing Brendon’s hoodie.

And, yeah, Ryan would’ve been an icicle by now if Brendon hadn’t gone to check on him; as soon as he’d stepped outside, the cold had seeped in under the fabric of his hoodie and served to make him uncomfortable, but now, in only a thin, long sleeved shirt, it was hard pressed against his skin, forcing him to shiver to keep warm.

“I’m— I’m gonna stay with you until your roommate gets here so I c-can make sure you get home safe,” Brendon told him through chattering teeth and quivering lips.

Ryan just nodded, shoving his hands in the pocket of Brendon’s hoodie, and didn’t make an attempt to argue, probably because he figured that nothing would change Brendon’s mind. “Okay,” he said.

The two of them fell into a steady silence that Brendon himself found comfortable but didn’t jump to label. He closed his eyes and imagined his breath materializing into vapor represented a part of himself leaving and escaping into the atmosphere, being carried by the wind into the the city and dispersing amidst its lights and people he would never meet. Then he would be breathing in Ryan to make up for the parts of himself that he’d just lost, and Ryan would be breathing in him to do the same. Brendon opened his eyes and thought that if Ryan’s insides could have a color—not his guts and his organs, but the stuff that made Ryan _Ryan_ —they would be blue.

“Ryan,” he asked, no longer aware of the city lights or the fog on the surface of Lake Michigan, “what’s your favorite color?” He managed to keep his voice steady.

“Dunno,” Ryan shrugged. “Lots. Whatever looks good to me, I guess. Almost every color can look good to me.” He paused before asking, “What’s yours?”

Brendon smiled despite the fact that he felt like his blood was freezing in his veins. “I like y-yellow. Like, d-d-daffodil yellow. Soft but b-bright and n-n-not harsh or, like, _in y-your face_. Or g-gold. Like not solid g-gold but gold g-glitter, where the light reflects off of it in all d-different directions.”

“That’s… that’s nice,” Ryan commented, and Brendon could see him smile to himself.

A few minutes later, Ryan’s ride had arrived.

“I have to go,” he told Brendon as a car pulled up in front of the coffeehouse.

“Okay,” Brendon said with a nod. “Make it home safe.”

And then, the blue boy drove away.


End file.
